This past summer my wife's family had a reunion.
I wasn't going to attend this year. I had other plans. Plans to go fishing. Plans for peace, tranquility and bass. When I shared my feelings with Ramona, she had some feelings of her own. "I grew up with these people," she said. "You go fishing and you might as well just take your parka and stay the winter." I decided to take her advice.
On Thursday night, the relatives began arriving. They came by the carload carrying large photo albums. There was hugging. Laughing. Picture-taking. And … did I mention the hugging? We guys stood around talking about golf and the rainy weather.
Late that night, as darkness came down, the rain picked up. "Maybe we should call off the reunion," I suggested. "I think I hear someone building an ark."
"Very funny," said Ramona. I looked down. And noticed there were tears in her eyes.
Staring at the clouds, she reminded me of some things we'd been trying to forget. Expensive tickets for tomorrow night's Passion Play. An outdoor performance that a week of rain was washing away. "I've been looking forward to this for months," she said. "I want my family to see this play so badly … the story of Jesus … His miracles … His resurrection."
I didn't need to ask why.
A generation ago, Huntington's Disease had invaded her family, making death a way of life. The skies, once bright and blue, were clouded with uncertainty now. One after another, three siblings had been diagnosed. "Only God knows how many reunions we have left … down here," she said, taking my hand. "I want this one to be memorable." Then she prayed aloud for her brother Dennis, who lies in a nursing home. And for her two sisters who had come to the reunion, their bodies changed by this awful disease. And she prayed for sunny skies. I listened. But my faith was smaller than those drops of rain pelting the window.
Friday morning dawned warm and hot and sunny. In Florida. But where we live the rain was now a torrent. Four inches in two days. A record, someone said. Ramona prayed again at breakfast and at lunch. The skies opened wider. That afternoon we drove to the Royal Tyrell Museum, known worldwide for its huge collection of dead dinosaurs. For $20 the whole family can view the remains and listen to lifeless speeches.
At six o'clock, as we exited the museum, the sun had poked through. Ramona didn't seem so surprised. "I knew it," she said, grinning.
A few miles from the dinosaur bones we sat in a natural amphitheatre, the sun warming our backs, our umbrellas unopened. For three hours only the sky held back. For three hours we watched the story of Jesus unfold. We saw Him offend the Pharisees. Laugh with children. Heal Mary Magdelene. And we watched in horror as they bolted him to a cross. The angels turned their backs. The crowd jeered and walked away.
Then: he took the world by surprise.
On either side of me sat my wife's two sisters. Women, who, along with their husbands and children, desperately long for healing. But it hit me that night that they had something far better. They had hope. A hope you will not find in a museum filled with bones. But in a place where the tomb is empty. In the simple story of a passionate Savior who died to heal the world.
On the way home, the sky opened once again, and the rain descended. As I punched the cruise control a car passed us, its license plate bearing the one word that best summed up our day: HOPE.
"Look," I said. And Ramona did.
"You glad you didn't go fishing?" she asked, with a twinkle in her eye.
"I sure am," I said. "I'd choose a family reunion any day." Then I added, "Would you mind praying about tomorrow? I'd sure like to go golfing."
